i will end it all soon.
i have not a clue how.
i know it will happen, though,
it's embedded beneath my brow.

nothing messy, or prolonged,
i am sure,
it will be just an instant gift-
it will place itself in my hands,
and through my hands my sparks will sift.

for now i am a captive,
all night i hearken to,
the death watches in the walls,
knowing i will soon be gone,
beckoned by the darkness that now calls.

and to paraphrase ol' Mr. Eliot,
(Thomas Stearns, if you must know)-
this is the way my life shall end,
this is the way my life shall end,
this is the way my life shall end:
not with a bang,

but with a whimper, i will go.

i am a shadow of my once was,
waiting and waiting for word of my fate.

_
photo:
http://beautyineverything.com/2678444760

maybe you may or may not see me
if you think you see me anywhere,
i may soon no longer be around,
but i may be gone into the softly air;
and in the subtle shadows,
of the flutter of the coloured leaves,
you may or may not see me,
floating in the billowed branches breeze.

maybe you may or may not see me,
this insight i shall never know,
for my life, i feel now dims to darkness,
trembling like a tiny, weakened flaming glow;
and within these dwindling hours here,
you may see me, or this may not be so,
for i am not sure if i was really there,
but, i know that shortly i must go...
__

soon me:
http://beautyineverything.com/4974900160

(Warning this poem contains visual content
which may be considered too morbid or shocking
for those of refined and gentle tastes.)

Rock a-bye-bye, Bethy,
from the wood-beam rafter stock,
when the neck-noose tightens,
Bethy's body will twitch, sway and will rock,
the chair she kicked out shall tumble and fall,
and rock a-bye-bye Bethy, will be dead and that's all.
_____
Disturbing photographic image:
http://beautyineverything.com/2375915615

i remember too many things
i should not,
things best left behind,
memories since best forgot.

i remember the things it seems,
things left in the wake,
of all my failed, unrealistic dreams,
all in all to forsake,
now I stand here alone without any schemes,
i now live in the lies i alone make.

i remember too many things,
and now i lay here in shame,
of neglected love and misfortune's slings.

savage, heart
so hurt
and empty
blackened pools of
pain, not envy
given into sleepless nights,
and pain-filled days,
where nothing's real,
where nothing's right.

this is the way it is,
the way it seems to
be
now i peer into a
dusty mirror
seeing little left of me.

...the tears fight for escape
from behind my tired
eyes,
eyes seeing nothing and
nowhere,
eyes
that are blinded by
pain beyond pain
on top of shame,
eyes,
that wish to close
and die

now.

___

(i'm always ill all the time)

When i lay me down to sleep of late,
i hope, i hope, i never wake.

The King of the World is on his way now,
he always shows up when the chips are down.
Everyone just loves The King of the World,
he always arrives with his banners unfurled.

The King can be a loud chap,
or The King can be quite a quiet mime,
he even puts his pants on
one royal leg at a time!

The King might eat breakfast,
or The King just might not,
he is everything you are,
yet is is all that you forgot.

He's a musician of sorts,
with a very big band,
his arrival is in herald,
throughout every land
-with brass trumpets a-blare,
and snare-drums rat-a-tat,
he makes everyone aware,
that he's now where you're at!

The King marches his forces
through the cities and fields,
assure of his courses,
lying flat beneath his heel.

He revels at the sight of deterioration,
fills his belly with the joy of nations in extinction.
The King grounds everything down to things he scrapes off his boots,
he topples the governs and poisons the cultural roots.

The King's fixations are splashed with spatters of blood,
turning kingdoms into crumbles of ashes and mud.
He bulldozes the bodies into toxic pits of ****,
contaminates by obscenity, wringing his hands at the wit.
Lionized by his minions in the empty empires he wrought,
The King's elite ruling class is dictated with rot.

In the aftermath of the bile
of his genocidal, sweet plight,
The King celebrates with great style,
turning the daylight into night.

With bonfires a-blaze on the wicked, windy wasteland,
The King of the World strikes up his big band,
and once marching again will torch and ravish the land,
dropping massive, beautiful bombs for the sake of the thrill,
melting the people and villages and eroding the hills.

The time for The King
always is nigh,
for he is surrounded by
the conjurations of lies.

Some say he is evil,
(but, he's not the Devil, you see)
-He's The King of the World,
he is you, he is *me.

"io sol uno."
-Dante, Purgatorio

There I was,
the comic-tragic star of my own motion-picture,
bold beneath the springtime Italian sun hung high
--a heavenly fixture,
illuminating the gold-leaf enframed frescoes in
kaleidoscopes of colours,
baking dry the pigeon droppings upon the flagstones
they smothered,
where I, in all my self-serving recreation,
posed proudly in a costume of my own creation,
an operatic villain clad in a billowy blouse of black,
the Campanile Tower like a sentinel behind my back,
as movie cameras panned and zoomed,
paparazzi photographers capturing me
and freezing me,
in all my wicked, medieval glory,
floating and gloating in the dank aroma of the Venetian seas,
"I'm the shining star!
--Look at me, look at me!"*
-the super-special star I always knew I'd be,
a painted parody,
a harlequin of displaced passions
for all to laugh at and see,
before slipping silently
into the ornate basilica,
dim and dark as night,
thanking Mother Mary (for nothing) as I sparked
a votive candle's light,
not really sure or caring
where my life would lead,
just as long as the Azure Queen
shed Her Grace on me,
     me,
             me,

...until I fell
and fell
to the mockery of a home
I made in Hell,
hard and forever and fast,
the only fool left alone in my solo cast,
adrift with no direction,
****** and lost,
me and my frivolous theatre,
squandered an an extravagant cost.

___
"io sol uno" means, "I, myself, alone."

This poem is a true-life story.

__
See the Piazza San Marco, Venice, Italy:
http://www.carfree.com/design/pix/sqlg110venice_piazza-san-marco.jpg

The being of sorrow -
like the beat of a drum
rhythmic, and consistent
sorrow is best felt,
not thought.

The leaf
Waves to me
From outside -

Silver drops
Of water sit on its
Cool green surface
In voiceless eloquence

The nascent scent is fresh
Wild
And real
Redolent with memories and truths of early days
That evade language
And pulse on a transcendent level

My unsettled heart knows
And easily resonates with this diurnal rhythm
That existed before the word
Near the beginning
Of what could have been
Before the way was lost -

And then the drops turn to
Rain and dark
Tears

That stain the window
I sit before
In this self imposed prison
Of a shabby life

Ruled by social torture and
The sly manipulation of machines and
Things beyond dead -
We exist
Together in separateness

Pleasantly shackled
In this irrelevant circus of celebrity, destruction and death
As senses dull
Bodies die
And
Potential decays

Outside
Wind caresses the trees
And multitudes of leaves quiver -

The body
Knows wrong and
The body
Sings strong

With senses keen and
Mind resolute on escape
Anger blooms full in my heart
That I raise and swing -
Chains break - walls burst -

And glass melts
Into the earth as
Rain wakes exhausted flesh
To the rising thunder
Of what will be
For the body knows

In the poetry
Of a leaf
Waits revolution